The New York Project

5. Wild(e)

She couldn't sleep.

Two hours later, she was still tossing and turning under the sheets, unable to think of something else. Unable to think of someone else.

Her stepbrother fancied her.

This was bad enough.

She fancied her stepbrother.

This was worse.

Why was this kiss by far the best she ever had?

Why would it have to be with him? Her evil stepmother's son?

Why was she feeling this way?

Hesitation, excitement, doubt, fear even, were raging through her, making her heart pound so fiercely that she had to put a hand on it.

She had to stop thinking about him and their kiss.

She tried to steer her mind towards her father and sister. She attempted to imagine the disappointment she would read in Henry's eyes. Cecilia's words came back to her instead.

Of course she was overthinking it: nothing more could happen between them.

She turned again on her bed and prayed for the quick relief of sleep.

No such chance.

Another half hour went by.

A burning fire, deep inside her, still made her blood boil through her veins.

Oh, this burning fire.

This was mental.

Her body moved before her brain.

It got out of bed and took the three steps to the door.

She placed a trembling hand on the handle and removed it instantly, as if it had scorched her. She began to back away and her body resisted. Or was it her brain, now?

A few seconds later, she was standing on the landing, only lit by a bright moon. Her breathing seemed so strong she could hear it.

Still in a daze, she opened his door, and here he was, at the foot of the stairs leading to his floor.

"Oh, um, I couldn't sleep," she mumbled, not even surprised.

"Me neither."

While they stood there, in the narrow staircase, staring at each other, a thick silence filled the air between them for some long seconds. Soon, still trembling, Victoria took his hand in hers and stroked it with her thumb.

He cocked his head to one side, an obvious question in his green eyes, and she simply nodded. As he nodded back, she came closer and their lips and bodies met again.

And so there is no turning back.

Up the stairs and to his bedroom they went, without letting go of each other. They frantically resumed their kisses and touches.

She quickly took his shirt off and smiled at his bare white chest. Without leaving her gaze, he firmly put one hand on her lips, as if he wanted to erase her mocking grin. His other hand began caressing her belly, her tights and inbetween under the indecent black nightgown she was proudly wearing. Quivering more and more, she grabbed his shoulder to steady herself.

Soon after, on the large bed, his mouth was on her breasts, kissing and sometimes nearly biting each inch of skin, whereas, at the same time, his fingers were slowly discovering the soft place between her legs.

And her brain was somewhere else entirely.

This wasn't New York.

This wasn't her father's townhouse.